


Of Daggers and Daedra

by ms_katonic



Series: Glory to the Forsworn [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Cannibalism, Daedra, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Dark Comedy, F/M, Forsworn, Light BDSM, Murder, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_katonic/pseuds/ms_katonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Going out with an insane murderer in a jester's outfit is not for everyone, it's true. However, when you're a Daedra-worshipper with the need to feed on the dead, someone who leaves a trail of bodies in his wake is ideal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on SKM wanted Cicero/Eola so here they are. I love these two too, I'm not sure whether it's the insanity or the near total lack of morals with barely a scruple between them, but they're adorably cute to write so here goes. It is a sequel of sorts to Nightshade and Juniper so with a pre-established relationship between them, but I am posting a Story So Far section below to summarise everything you need to know, so you can read this without having read N&J. Warnings for murder, sex, cannibalism and arousal from murder and blood. 
> 
> Spoilers for: Post Civil War, post Dark Brotherhood and main questlines, Forsworn Conspiracy/Cidhna Mine, Taste of Death, House of Horrors, some slight references to the Dawnguard questline
> 
>  
> 
> STORY SO FAR: When dragons returned to Tamriel, the one chosen to fight them was an Altmer woman called Liriel, who went on to become Archmage of Winterhold, Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, Slayer of Alduin and adoptive mother to two little girls called Sissel and Lucia, who lived with her and her husband in Markarth. So far, so canon. However, said husband was no ordinary human, but Madanach the King in Rags, and thanks to Liriel, he and his Forsworn followers were instrumental in helping the Empire defeat Ulfric Stormcloak. As a reward for his assistance, Madanach got to keep the kingdom he'd worked for all this time and now rules from Markarth as Reach-King. Meanwhile thanks to several twists of fate, Eola, being Madanach's long-lost daughter, has ended up as heir to the throne, a role that doesn't sit easily with her other jobs as leader of Namira's faithful and Listener Liriel's right-hand woman in the Dark Brotherhood, but thanks to her relationship with Cicero, the balancing act is not as hard as it could be. Now read on.

Markarth, the City of Stone. Dwemer ruin turned island of Nord rulership amidst a sea of Forsworn tribes, now turned Forsworn capital. Nearly a year free, thanks to the Dragonborn and her alliance with Madanach the King in Rags, an alliance that had turned into one of the Reach's great love stories. 

But this is not that story. This is no tale of grand passion, no romance to echo down the centuries, no tale of two people overcoming cultural, age and indeed species differences to form a marriage of soul mates. This is the tale of two people brought together by fate, chance and mutual loyalty to said Dragonborn Reach-Queen... and kept together by a mutual love of blood and stabbing and fire.

Of course, right at the moment our tale begins, one of them was really not feeling the love.

“Sister, I'm bored!” Cicero whined. Eola closed her eyes and quietly prayed to Namira for strength. She loved Cicero, she really and truly did... but at times like this, she couldn't remember why. Honestly, he had to be the clingiest man she'd ever met. Was he completely incapable of entertaining himself? Five minutes peace, that was all she wanted. She'd crept off while the Dragonborn's children, Sissel and Lucia, had pounced on him and made him play with them, inviting him to a tea-party with them and their dolls, and while he'd been busy giggling as they'd tied ribbons in his hair and put home-made jewellery made of stones and feathers and leather strips on him, Eola had snuck off to bathe her feet in the Markarth Brook as it passed through Understone Keep. She liked this part of the Keep. It didn't feel like being indoors, it felt like being in a beautiful stone garden under a perpetual night sky and unlike a year ago, she didn't have to sneak out of the Hall of the Dead to enjoy it while the Keep slept. Now she could go where she wanted, when she wanted, and get saluted by the guards as she did so. Yes, this was not a bad life she'd ended up with.

Except when Cicero got bored. 

“I thought you were playing with the girls?” she said wearily, feeling a headache coming on. 

“Yes, and then it was time for Lucia's lute lesson with that pretty Nord bar- er, hideous and deformed crone of a bard who Cicero definitely doesn't find attractive, not at all,” said Cicero, hastily correcting himself as he saw Eola glaring at him. “And then Sissel wanted to go practice her Destruction magic and last time Cicero was around for that, Cicero ended up with Ice Spikes in places you do not want Ice Spikes.” He shivered at the memory and Eola bit back a laugh. Sissel's lessons were going very well – too well. She was picking up magic as well as any Breton child, and Cicero hadn't fully realised that when he'd volunteered as a test subject. At least it hadn't been fire magic.

“So Cicero left them to it and then he realised you'd gone and he got lonely. So now he has found you and isn't lonely any more!” He'd come to sit next to her, snuggling up to her with arms wrapped tightly around her waist and his head on her shoulder, sighing happily. “But Cicero is still bored. What shall we do, sister?”

Despite having been lovers for the best part of a year, he still called her sister, a hangover from when they'd first met as the newly reinstated Keeper of the Night Mother and Listener Liriel's first proper recruit to the Brotherhood she'd just claimed off Astrid. Eola had told him he should probably stop calling her that, but he still did.

“I don't know,” Eola sighed, wondering for what must be the fifth time that day when Liriel was coming back. No Listener meant no contracts coming in, which meant no work for the Brotherhood and while Nazir had contacts all over the place and a steady flow of work for his Sanctuary, Eola wasn't so lucky with hers. Reachcliff Sanctuary had only just finished being outfitted and as far as recruits went, all Eola had was Sanyon and Nimphaneth from the coven of Namira, Festus Krex who'd found Dawnstar too cold for his liking, and Babette during the summer – she couldn't cope with the long summer days in Dawnstar but conversely loved the long winter nights. Oh, and Cicero. Clingy, needy Cicero, who tended to the Night Mother once a week and then shadowed her the other six days. Cicero with no attention span, in constant need of entertainment and without contracts to take up his time or a Listener to take charge of him, very easily bored. Eola didn't need telling that a bored Cicero was likely to start making his own entertainment, and even Madanach's tolerance had limits. Eola wondered if there were any bounties going in the Reach, before realising that of course there weren't, the Reach's main public order problem had been the Forsworn. Now they were running the show, the Reach was disgustingly peaceful and crime-free. While it had been amusing at first watching Nord mercenaries show up looking for work to be turned away with a shrug and a “sorry, we've got no bandits here,” or “well, we've got a problem with some beasts – oh wait, no sorry, the ReachGuard took care of it last week” or a “work, is it? Well, we've got jobs going in Cidhna Mine, the Warrens Renovation Project and the Deepwood Vale Roadbuilding Project, any of those catch your eye? What, honest labour not good enough for you, is it? You Nords disgust me, get out of my keep” the fact remained all this prosperity meant there wasn't anything she could hand over to Cicero to keep him occupied either. At this rate she'd be sending Nimphaneth round Skyrim's inns and palaces collecting all the bounty notices and dishing those out instead.

Cicero huffed and whined, kicking his feet and starting to fidget.

“Sister, when is the Listener coming back?” he sighed. “Cicero misses her.”

“I don't know,” Eola sighed. “When she's found those other Elder Scrolls and dealt with that vampire lord, I suppose.”

Cicero scowled at the very mention of the word 'vampire'. 

“When the Listener joined that Dawnguard, Cicero was hoping it would mean lots of stabbing of vampires,” Cicero growled. “Not the Listener sending Cicero home and disappearing for MONTHS with one!”

“It has not been months,” Eola sighed. “Weeks if that. And Serana's OK, I don't know why you don't like her.”

“She is annoying,” Cicero muttered. “And she did not trust poor Cicero. She made Liriel send loyal, faithful Cicero away! She took the Listener off who knows where without him!”

Frankly, right now Eola understood exactly why Liriel might send Cicero home and go running off with someone else for once, and she couldn't really fault Serana for not wanting Cicero along either. In fact, right now the only thing stopping her pushing Cicero into the stream was the fact that she'd end up having to find another consort-to-be and frankly that was even more tedious than putting up with Cicero's whining. 

Fortunately, fate was smiling on her that day. Footsteps behind her, a discreet cough and Eola turned around, beyond grateful for a distraction.

“Nepos!” she gasped. Her father's steward, Nepos the Nose, smart, cunning, resourceful and very very good at managing the unmanageable, as proved by the fact he'd been Madanach's right-hand man for forty years and not either killed Madanach or taken his own life.

“Eola,” Nepos said with a smile, taking a seat on her free side. “Just the woman. How are you?”

“I have no work coming in, Cicero is bored and won't stop cuddling me, and thanks to my father, it is now illegal to use Destruction magic on one's intimate partners without their consent and the five hundred septim bounty for doing so is something I can live without so I can't Flame Cloak Cicero to get him to stop.” 

“So use Lightning Cloak instead,” Nepos said, shrugging. “Last time I saw it used on Cicero, he squealed like a girl, ran around the room three times waving his hands in the air and then sat at your father's feet staring at him adoringly for the next half hour, which Madanach informs me was actually more distracting than the cuddling.”

Eola did have to smile at that. Bless Cicero, he never did quite know when to stop. It was a good thing Madanach liked him really. Next to her, Cicero squirmed, giggling at the memory as his face went pink.

“Did you need anything?” Eola asked, stroking Cicero's hair to keep him quiet while she talked with Nepos. “You don't usually drop by for a chat, not during court hours anyway.”

“No, you're right,” Nepos said, still calm as ever. “Eola, we have a bit of a delicate situation and your father and I think you might be best placed to handle it.”

Delicate situation, eh? Eola's attention was caught. Now this could be just the thing to entertain her, especially if it involved sneaking and stabbing.

“Do tell,” Eola purred. “You know me, Nepos, always eager to serve my country.”

“Indeed,” Nepos said, smiling. “Eola, you know the abandoned house down on the ground level near the Treasury House?”

Eola knew the one.

“What, the one that's abandoned and has always been abandoned, that even the Thieves Guild won't touch?”

“That's the one,” Nepos confirmed. “Well, normally everyone ignores it completely, as well they should but, well, it appears someone's taking an interest.”

No wonder he'd called it delicate. Eola had seen it on her return to Markarth and immediately had a sense of foreboding about the place, Namira's presence in her mind nudging her away from it, an instinct telling her that the Abandoned House That Had Always Been Abandoned was best left well alone. Someone poking around in it? That couldn't be good.

“What poor fool's decided heading in there is a good idea?” Eola asked, privately thinking that Madanach would be best off letting the idiot take his chances in there and the problem would likely resolve itself in short order. 

“The Vigil of Stendarr think it's a good idea,” Nepos said, and that explained a lot. Despite the destruction of their Hall in the Pale, there were still Vigilants around, poking around where they weren't wanted, trying to uncover Daedra worship and interfere with the lives of perfectly respectable cultists everywhere. Hogni had warned her there was one in town. This must be why.

“And?” Eola asked. “Let him poke around in there. He'll either find nothing or actually will find Daedra worship going on and will end up as a sacrifice on some altar or other. Either way, not our problem.”

“It's not quite that simple,” Nepos sighed. “As you know, Daedra worship is largely outlawed or at least condemned through most of the Empire. The fact that your father hasn't written a single law regarding banning it is giving rise to concern in some quarters.”

“My father's very big on religious freedom, everyone knows that!” Eola said innocently. “Why, he only banned Talos worship because of the White-Gold Concordat.” That last was a lie, a big fat lie, the Talos worship ban had never been signed into law so enthusiastically but neither Nepos or Eola were going to say that out loud.

“Yes, quite,” Nepos sighed, “but the point is, everyone already believes we're all necromancers, cannibals and Daedra-worshippers. Now we have the Vigil of Stendarr investigating possible Daedra worship in this very city and insisting Madanach provide guards to assist with the investigation. If your father says no, General Rikke and Imperial Observer Legate Fasendil might just decide that's evidence the rumours are true and intervene.”

“Legate Fasendil's just here to make sure the Nords of the Reach aren't being massacred or abused, not interfere with our religious practices,” Eola said tersely although she also knew full well Madanach couldn't really be seen to be too openly sponsoring the less savoury aspects of traditional Forsworn culture, not where the Empire could see him anyway. 

“You know full well that's not the only reason the Empire are watching us closely,” Nepos said quietly. “Your father was in prison for treason and insurrection this time last year. Small wonder the Empire don't trust him not to do it again. So no, we can't just ignore this. However, if we do send in the ReachGuard alongside this Vigilant...”

“The Hags will collectively lose it and we get a rebellion on our hands all over the Reach,” Eola sighed, seeing where this was going. “Yeah, delicate. I guess this is where I come in, hey?”

“Indeed,” Nepos said, looking rather pleased. “Your father and I were thinking you could perhaps approach this Vigilant informally, offer your services off the books, so to speak. Madanach thinks that it'll look better if you go. He's of the opinion that the Matriarchs of the Reach all have the utmost respect for you and are quite willing to believe you would never side with the Vigil over them.”

Eola carefully schooled her face into a picture of utmost innocence and guilelessness. She'd never told her father about her worship of Lady Namira or about the cult operating in his city, and she was very keen to keep it that way. 

“I'm very pleased to hear it, although I'm sure I don't know why the Hags would think I'd hate the Vigil of Stendarr,” said Eola calmly, meeting Nepos' gaze without even flinching.

“I'm sure I don't know either,” said Nepos, equally calm, equally unflinching and Eola had the unnerving feeling Nepos knew all about the Namira coven but was choosing to turn a blind eye. She'd have to be careful. She liked Nepos, loved him to bits, but all the same, he'd not got where he was by being an idiot.

“So, you'll take the job?” Nepos asked, knowing full well the answer was going to be yes.

“Anything for the Reach, Nepos,” Eola told him cheerfully. Nepos grinned back, getting to his feet and telling her he needed to get back to the courtroom, it wasn't wise to let Madanach hold court unsupervised for long, anything could happen. As if on cue, a bolt of lightning flashed out in the Keep's central corridor, and the Reach-King himself could be heard shouting.

“Tell Maven that Reach jenever's a better drink than that rubbish the Nords call alcohol and that I'm marketing it to every tavern in Skyrim regardless of what she thinks! INCLUDING THE ONES IN THE RIFT.”

In the distance, Hemming Black-Briar could be seen running for his life for the Keep's doors and Nepos sighed heavily.

“Oh dear. I'd better go find out just how badly he's savaged our trading relations with the Rift. Goodbye, Eola. I hope you can resolve our Vigilant problem for us.”

“I will,” Eola promised. Cicero, who had been quietly snuggled in her arms, watching the entire conversation with a look of faint bemusement, finally sat up, frowning.

“Sister,” he said cautiously. “What did we just agree to? You hate the Vigil of Stendarr. You single them out more often than you do the Thalmor and Stormcloak resistance fighters. Why are we helping one?”

Eola ruffled his hair, feeling rather more patient and benevolent now she had a job to do. “Cicero, sweetie, Nepos doesn't want us to help this poor fool. Nepos wants the whole mess to go away. We're not hunting Daedra, my love. We've just been given a _contract._ ”

Cicero's eyes widened and the unholy grin she'd fallen in love with in the first place split his face. As Cicero's mad cackles echoed round Understone Keep, Eola hugged him tight, gleeful smile on her own. About time some work came up. She was getting hungry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

“So you don't know anything about this house?” Tyranus asked the Redguard jewellery vendor. Her stall was only down the street, she must see people going in and out surely?

“All I know is it's abandoned,” Kerah said stiffly. “It's always been abandoned. No one goes in, no one goes out. I'm sorry, I'm afraid I can't tell you any more. Look, did you want to buy anything or not?”

“Hmm? Oh. No, no, it's fine, that's all I needed to know. Thank you for your time.” Tyranus walked away, ignoring the grumbling as she muttered about fancy ass Altmer who wasted her time and didn't buy anything. He had more important things to think about. Such as that allegedly abandoned house that reeked of dark magic and had had strange lights and sounds coming from it, and he wasn't remotely reassured by the local authorities' reaction. He'd hardly even been able to see the King, and that steward of his was giving him the run-around, he just knew it. He had hoped that a city whose Breton rulers actually understood magic might be more helpful than Nord Jarls usually were, but it appeared that perhaps they understood the Daedra just a bit too well.

He returned to the door of the house, wondering if perhaps he should pluck up his courage and go in alone after all. It wasn't a good idea, he knew that, but he was getting nowhere and with the Hall's destruction, he didn't have the support he'd once have been able to get from his brothers and sisters in the Vigil. No, there was nothing for it, he'd have to investigate this one alone. 

“Excuse me.”

Tyranus nearly jumped out of his skin. He'd not heard any footsteps, been too lost in thought to see anyone approach, and the woman's voice had taken him completely by surprise.

She was young from the look of it, roughly equivalent to a 150-year old Altmer if Tyranus was any judge, one eye lost to a sword-stroke but not bad-looking for a human despite that. She was wearing very finely crafted and expensive looking scaled armour, a pair of red and black gloves and matching boots, and a Forsworn woman's traditional headdress. Around her neck was a white-gold rope-like necklace open at the front with two wolves' heads adorning the ends, in a similar style to the red-gold eagle-headed one he'd glimpsed King Madanach wearing. Expensive from the look of it, so clearly someone high-ranked in the Forsworn. Had the King decided to help after all? He could but hope.

The man next to her in the jester's outfit with red hair, dark eyes that didn't blink nearly often enough for Tyranus' liking and the smile that never wavered once was another matter entirely, but the Forsworn woman was holding his weapon hand so Tyranus decided to leave him be.

“What can I do for you, young lady?” he asked. She patted the elven blade at her side, smiling sweetly.

“We heard you were looking into this house. We were wondering if you'd got anywhere?”

Assistance, Stendarr be praised. Someone in this wretched city that actually seemed to care about the possibility of Daedra in their midst. The King had clearly found someone capable to give him a hand after all.

“Nowhere,” Tyranus sighed. “I've found all sorts of tales of strange noises and lights from this house but everyone I speak to says it's abandoned and always has been. No one goes in. No one goes out. It's like there's some sort of enchantment on it making people look the other way.”

“Ah well,” the woman said, sounding kind and understanding, the first person in this town who had done. “This city's used to looking the other way. A holdover from the Nord occupation when it was safer to keep your head down, see nothing, say nothing and drink to forget. But don't you worry, sir. King Madanach's determined to put all that behind him, and I'm sure he wouldn't want a source of potent dark magic in the city. You're with the Vigil, aren't you?”

“I am,” Tyranus confirmed, warming to the young woman already. “Tyranus is the name. And you are?”

“Eola,” the young woman told him, and he was sure he'd heard that name somewhere, some story about a noted Forsworn warrior who'd distinguished herself in the uprising somehow. She did look like she could handle a few Daedra worshippers. “And this here is Cicero. He's my devoted companion.”

“Hello!” Cicero giggled, swaying in time to music only he could hear, still that demented grin on his face. “Cicero is very pleased to meet you, kind Vigilant. Cicero doesn't get to talk to members of the Vigil very often, you know.”

From the look of him, Tyranus suspected he wasn't allowed out on his own often enough to talk to strangers. Very nice of Eola to take her poor afflicted friend for a walk in the city but he'd probably be a liability when hunting Daedra.

“Well, there's not so many of us as there were,” Tyranus said gruffly. “Eola, I was thinking of taking a look inside to see what's actually going on in this house. Did you want to come with me? I could do with someone to watch my back while I'm here. Daedra are tricky creatures. You never know what you're going to find.”

“I'd be glad to!” Eola laughed, lips parting to reveal gleaming white teeth that looked ever so slightly pointed, but Tyranus was sure that was his imagination. “What do you think, Cicero, fancy chasing some Daedra?”

“Oh yes, sweetling!” Cicero giggled, nodding enthusiastically and bouncing up and down as if she'd just suggested a fun afternoon out. “Cicero would love to!”

Tyranus wasn't at all sure bringing a demented jester along would be any benefit at all, in fact the man would probably end up getting killed. Still, Eola clearly wasn't going in without him and Tyranus didn't want to go in alone. If she wanted to risk her friend's life, so be it. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and went in.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Eola followed Tyranus in, smirking to herself. That had been easy, too easy. People could be so trusting. It did make things so very simple. 

Cicero was skipping along behind her, humming quietly to himself, apparently carefree and happy. Good, people often dismissed him as harmless or stupid when he was like this. It was usually their last mistake. 

Tyranus had gone on ahead, noting the presence of fresh food and a relative lack of dust. Someone had definitely been here recently. Eola glanced about her. She'd have to agree about that. She wondered who it was. Someone skilled in Illusion magic maybe. It definitely wasn't anyone in either the Brotherhood or her own coven, and the ReachGuard all avoided the place too. So a stranger then, hiding out in the city. Much as she had been after the Draugr rose from their tombs at Reachcliff. She wondered which Daedra they worshipped. Another Namira worshipper perhaps? No, no, she'd have noticed if there was anyone else feeding on the dead in this city.

Cicero was busy going through the chests and cupboards, helping himself to a few bits of loot and humming to himself. Up until he went very quiet and next thing Eola knew, dark magic was crackling in the air and Cicero was tugging at her arm.

“Sister...” he whispered nervously, and that wasn't good, Cicero wasn't usually scared of anything. Slowly, she turned to see where he was pointing.

One of the cauldrons in the corner was hovering in mid-air, unearthly glow around it, and the broom was doing likewise. Before her very eyes, one of the chairs rose up from the ground, slowly rising and settling on to the table.

“Oh now that is not good,” Eola whispered. Telekinesis could do that, but three large objects at once for more than a few seconds? Took skill, focus and magicka. Lots of magicka.

“There's something down here!” Tyranus shouted from the lower level. “Help me find it!”

“Come on,” Eola said quietly, catching at Cicero's arm. “Let's stay with him – if it all goes Voidwards, we can throw him to the Daedra and buy time for us to run.”

“We could run now and get out,” Cicero muttered, but he followed her anyway. Eola was tempted to flee the house herself, but this was her father's capital now, not some Nord city for her to prey on. There was definitely something bad going on, and Madanach would want to know what it was. So she followed, Cicero behind her, both trying to ignore the various floating objects, the growing darkness in the room and the sound of something skittering in the walls.

Tyranus was downstairs, trying the cellar door. 

“It won't open,” he cried. “Here, see if you can try.”

Eola pushed the door, even sent a bit of shock magic into it, but nothing happened and there didn't seem to be a lock to pick or even a handle. Cicero likewise tried, but nothing. Eola shrugged and turned to Tyranus. 

“Sorry, nothing's happening. We should probably... Tyranus?” She saw where he was looking and realised he'd seen the floating domestic objects himself by this time.

“Stendarr's mercy, this is no ordinary Daedra! We need to get help!” he cried, running for the door. Oh gods, a hysterical Vigilant getting out into the city and shrieking at her father, that was all she needed. 

“Wait!” she cried, chasing after him with Cicero. Then it happened.

“Weak... he's weak. You're strong! Crush him!”

Eola stopped dead, wondering if anyone else had heard that. Tyranus hadn't paused. Eola turned to Cicero, who had stopped in his tracks, looking around in awe. 

“Did you hear that?” she whispered. Cicero nodded, grin curving across his face.

“It wants us to crush the Altmer Vigilant,” Cicero whispered, looking a bit like a Daedra himself with that evil grin and his face shadowed. Eola shivered at the sight. By the Daedra, Cicero was a sexy, sexy man when he got like this. She stepped out of his way.

“Go on,” she told him, feeling her mouth already start to water at the thought of Cicero's knives sinking into golden Altmer flesh. Cicero cackled and slipped past her, ebony dagger already clutched in his hand.

Tyranus had reached the entrance room already, shaking and hammering on the door.

“It won't open. Why won't it open?” he cried, hands at his head. “Dammit, Daedra, get out of my head!”

Clearly whatever entity had this house in its grip was speaking to him too. Maybe telling him to kill them? Eola didn't know, but if it was a kill or be killed situation... well, there was only ever going to be one outcome to that, and neither she nor Cicero were the type to waste time agonising over the decision. 

Cicero had already crept up on Tyranus, dagger at the ready and delighted grin on his face. The Daedra's voice rang out again.

“Kill him! Crush him! Tear at his flesh! You will kill. You will kill or you will die!”

Eola bit back a whimper at the thought of tearing at the Altmer's flesh, and Cicero's mind was clearly working along similar lines. Eola watched, feeling arousal pooling in her loins as Cicero glided out of the shadows, dagger raised as his arm slid round Tyranus and the ebony knife sank into the Altmer's chest, blood spurting everywhere. A few more knife-thrusts and Tyranus was dead, sinking to the floor. Cicero stood there, gasping for breath and wiping the blood spatter from his face. He looked up, eyes meeting hers, faint smile quirking at his mouth and Eola heard a little keening noise escaping her lips. Cicero growled and then he'd covered the distance between them, pushing her back against the wall, dagger clattering forgotten to the floor as he claimed her lips, erection hard against her own loins as he writhed against her and Eola moaned into him, pulling him closer as she groped his backside.

“You're so sexy when you kill things,” she whispered in his ear as he paused for breath. Cicero grinned back at her, dark eyes sparkling with delight. 

“Cicero shall have to stab more things for you then, won't he sweetling?” He glanced up, recalling that they were still in a haunted house. “Do you think the Daedra is watching us? Should we stop or give him a show?”

While carrying on was very tempting and Namira knew Eola had never been uptight about that sort of thing even by Forsworn standards, Eola decided she should probably know what sort of entity they were actually dealing with before having rampant and passionate sex in its house. Then the voice rang out again.

“Yes. Yesss. Your reward is waiting for you, mortal. Further down.”

“Reward!” Cicero gasped. “Sister, there's a reward!” He paused only to grab his dagger again before running back into the house's depths before Eola could stop him.

“Cicero, wait!” Eola cried. “You don't know what's down there!”

“Yes,” the voice crooned as Cicero ran through the now open cellar doors. “Further down. Into the bowels.”

Cicero was practically squealing as he ran on into the house, Eola chasing after him. Dear gods, did the man have no common sense at all? He was going to get himself killed!

Into the cellar, then a tunnel dug out behind some shelves, into Markarth's Dwemer ruins and then a cave containing an altar that looked familiar and then Eola realised which Daedra had claimed this house for their own.

“CICERO NO, GET OUT OF THERE!” she screamed as Cicero scampered up to the altar, reaching up for the spiked rusted mace sitting above it. As his fingers closed on the handle, spikes shot up from it, trapping him neatly in a cage.

“CICERO!” Eola cried, horrified. In the cage, Cicero had drawn his arm back and was now darting frantically about the interior, turning this way and that, scrabbling at the bars for a way out.

“Sister!” he wailed. “Sister, sister, heeeelp!”

“Cicero,” Eola gasped, racing up to the cage and trying to shift the bars, but nothing happened. Cicero was trapped.

“Let him go!” Eola cried. “Please, let him go!” Cicero was also starting to panic, trying in vain to rattle the bars.

“LET ME OUT OF HERE!” he howled. “LET POOR CICERO OUT!!!!”

“FOOL!” the Daedra laughed. “Did you think Molag Bal, the Lord of Domination, would so easily reward you?”

Cicero's eyes went very wide as he realised who'd trapped him. “That is not one of the nice ones, is it sister?” he whispered, looking even paler than usual.

“He's a Daedra, what were you expecting!” Eola snapped at him. Really, she knew Cicero was a bit simple but even so, he usually had a bit more sense than this! Cicero just whimpered, turning around and dropping to his knees.

“Please let poor Cicero out,” he whined. “Cicero is a harmless little fool just minding his own business, and quite prepared to leave and forget he saw anything in here.”

“We're good with the Daedra, we really are!” Eola added, looking hopefully at the altar. “Say, is there anything you need doing? Anyone needing sacrificing to you? We'll happily track them down and bring them here!”

Laughter and then Molag Bal was speaking again.

“Ah yes, I know you now. Namira's priestess and the Night Mother's Keeper. Yes, you'll do. You'll do perfectly. Tell me, foolish Cicero, what do you see from that little cage?”

Cicero glanced helplessly back at Eola, who just shrugged.

“Just answer him,” she told him. Namira had never really been an enemy of Molag Bal, she'd just made sure to stay out of his way and not look like a threat. All Namira worshippers were adept at staying in the shadows, out of sight, and acting harmless and submissive when stronger individuals were around. Eola had the feeling Molag Bal regarded Namira as beneath his notice, and that was the way Namira liked it. She had no idea how he felt about the Night Mother, however.

“It's a mace, sir,” Cicero whispered, curled up in a little ball on the floor of the cage. “All spiky and rusty.”

“A mace,” Molag Bal snarled. “Yes. My once mighty mace, once dripping with the blood of my enemies, now rusted and desecrated.”

Cicero tutted, shaking his head. “That is awful, sir, very very bad indeed. Who did this to it? Who has ruined dear swee- er, sadistic and ruthless Molag Bal's lovely mace? Tell Cicero and he and pretty Eola shall happily go and stab them and eat them for you.”

More laughter, and Eola got the impression he was actually pleased.

“Now that's what I like to hear. However, I don't want him dead. He's a priest of Boethiah, my rival in Oblivion. His name is Logrolf. He has been here, visiting my shrine, performing Boethiah's insulting rites here, desecrating my altar. He must be stopped, but as I said, I don't want him dead.” He paused, and Cicero was looking up, tilting his head and looking very confused.

“Why wouldn't you want him dead?” Cicero asked, puzzled as to why someone wouldn't respond to an altar desecration by stabbing the miscreant.

“I want him humiliated,” Molag Bal hissed, and Eola nodded in understanding, as did Cicero, who had started to grin. “I want him humbled, broken, forced into submission for me. When he next comes here, I want him _punished._ ”

Now Cicero was actually giggling, rubbing his hands in delight. “Ohhh. _Punishment._ Lord Molag Bal wishes to carry out the stabbing _personally._ Cicero understands. What does mighty and domineering Molag Bal need humble Cicero and sweet Eola to do?”

“He's been taken prisoner, taken into custody by one of your Matriarchs,” Molag Bal growled, clearly annoyed by this. “Keirine at Hag's End has him. Go there. Rescue him. And when he comes back here to perform his rites again, we will be waiting.”

Molag Bal's voice faded and the spikes of the cage retracted into the floor. Cicero sat up, looking around, blinking in the half light.

“Cicero,” Eola gasped, shaking with relief that he was all right, neither of them had died or been hurt, thank Sithis and Namira. “Oh gods Cicero, are you all right?”

Cicero nodded, getting up and staggering over, clinging on to her, clearly a bit shaken by the whole experience. Eola led him away from the altar and held him tight, stroking his hair, just glad to have him in her arms again.

“And this,” she whispered, “is why we do not go poking around strange altars when we don't know who they're dedicated to, do you understand me? Sithis, Cicero, that could have been the end of you!”

Cicero nodded silently, snuggling into her, nuzzling at her neck and dear gods, was he still horny? Apparently so if the erection nudging at her groin was anything to go by.

“Don't tell me,” she murmured in his ear. “You've got a crush on Molag Bal.” 

Cicero nodded enthusiastically, nipping at her jawline.

“He has a very sexy voice, sister,” Cicero breathed. “All deep and commanding. I bet he has a cock to match.”

“It probably has spikes on the end and would rip you apart from the inside,” Eola muttered and Cicero just moaned louder.

“ _Sister,_ ” he growled. “Do you think – do you think Molag Bal would be very angry if we had sex on his altar?”

“He's the King of Rape, having consensual sex on his altar would probably count as desecration, and it's been desecrated enough, don't you think?” Eola hissed. Then her hand slid lower to Cicero's arse, giving it a squeeze. “But there's a bed upstairs.”

Cicero cackled, scooping her up in his arms and racing upstairs with her, not stopping until he'd reached the single bed and flung her down on it, one hand under her armour as he sliced her underwear off and rolled her legs back. Eola, still wet from having seen him stab that Vigilant earlier, just lay back, removing her torc and placing it to one side then smiling as he unfastened the laces at his groin and entered her in one stroke.

“ _Yessss,_ ” Cicero hissed as he slid inside her. “Oh yes, yes Eola, yes!”

In the darkness, half-crazed, horny and laughing as he moved inside her, Cicero looked like the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen and Eola remembered what she saw in him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, angling her hips so he could go deeper, moaning his name as he fucked her.

“You're a bad man,” Eola breathed in his ear. Cicero laughed and growled, pinning her shoulders down, hair falling down around his face.

“I know, I know!” he giggled and then he'd pulled her to him, teeth sinking into her shoulder as he thrusted inside her and Eola cried out, holding on to him for all she was worth. Her eyes flicked open, glancing to her left where a trickle of blood from Tyranus' body was still visible and that reminded her Cicero had just stabbed a man in front of her not half an hour ago. Eola closed her eyes, reliving the moment when Cicero's dagger had claimed the Vigilant's life, moaning Cicero's name as orgasm found her and she came, crying out a litany of gods and yes and Cicero, yes. He came not long after, collapsing in her arms and lying there, unmoving.

For a while neither of them spoke, just lying there on a bed that belonged to neither, with a Daedric altar in the cellar and a body in the next room. Then Cicero started giggling and rolled over, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“There are not many women who would watch Cicero stab someone and then enter into a pact with Molag Bal, and respond with arousal,” Cicero gasped, grinning at her. Eola stroked his face, feeling content – mostly.

“There's not many men who'd find out about Lady Namira and respond by finding meat for me,” she told him. “Speaking of which...” She nodded meaningfully in the direction of Tyranus' corpse and Cicero glanced over and giggled.

“Oh! Oh yes. Of course. Do not worry, my lovely. Cicero shall feed you.” Tucking himself back in to his trousers and lacing up, Cicero retrieved his knife and ran off to start butchering Tyranus, some to eat now and some for Eola to cast frost runes on and smuggle out to Hogni for the rest of the coven. No sense wasting a kill like this one.

Eola retrieved her torc and headdress, tidying herself up before heading out to join Cicero and mentally composing a report for her father, something to both cover Tyranus' absence and explain why she felt the urgent need to go visit Auntie Keirine in a hurry. Doable, very doable – her father was by this point quite used to not inquiring too deeply into her affairs and more than willing to take anything she said at face value as long as there was no actual evidence. But before that... time to feast.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's off to Hag's End to retrieve Logrolf and let him go back to Markarth to his doom. However, where once this would have been an easy task of slaughtering everyone in their way and freeing him, recent Reach political developments mean this is no longer an option, forcing Cicero and Eola to use the diplomatic route. Fortunately, Eola's well-versed in what will win a Hagraven over...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is chapter two. This whole story is likely to be only three chapters long, so expect the next one to be the last.
> 
> Warnings for: spanking, bondage, light BDSM, mad dom Cicero, cannibalism, murder, the usual in other words.

Madanach was waiting for them in Understone Keep, court closed for the day, his young stepdaughters tucked up in bed with a story, just the fearsome King of the Reach sitting alone in the Keep's Night Garden, watching the stream flow past and listening to his court mage in the distance lecturing young Aicantar on the properties and purpose of various bits of Dwemer metal. Aside from the number of guards stationed around him, all keeping their distance, arms folded and glowering from under their Forsworn headdresses, he didn't look like anything other than an ageing Breton man in a circlet and fine clothing. Just an old man enjoying a free evening and wishing his wife were there.

Eola wasn't Liriel but she did her best to make up for it – by providing company anyway. The sexual services he'd have to do without until the Dragon-Queen's return – not that Cicero wouldn't have offered to help. Cicero liked men as well as women, Eola had long known that. Cicero's taste in men ran to cruel, ruthless and sadistic murderers who would use him and abuse him, Eola knew that too. It didn't bother her. Everyone had their little fetishes, didn't they? 

“Reach-King, Reach-King, dearest, sweetest Reach-King!” Cicero trilled, bouncing into the room and skipping over to where Madanach was waiting, sliding on to the bench beside him and snuggling into Madanach's side, head on his shoulder and arms around his waist. 

It was a mark of how long Liriel had been gone that Madanach didn't immediately start edging away from Cicero or threaten to cast Lightning Cloak on him again. 

“Cicero,” Madanach murmured, draping an arm around his shoulders. “If you keep the noise level down and don't fidget, I am willing to allow you some small measure of affection. But no groping, understand?”

“Yes sir,” Cicero sighed happily, closing his eyes and grinning. Madanach ruffled Cicero's hair and glanced in the other direction, pleased to see his daughter arriving. Eola took the seat on her father's other side, resting her head on his other shoulder, his arm going around her without hesitation.

“Hello there, cariad,” he murmured. “What've you been doing with yourself? You've been gone all afternoon and evening. The girls missed you, you know.”

“I'll be sure and see them later,” Eola promised. “Nepos had us helping out that Vigilant who's been poking around.”

“Ah yes,” Madanach said calmly. “The Vigilant. Tyranus, wasn't it?”

“It was,” Eola grinned, not missing her father's use of the past tense, her own use of it answering his unspoken question. Madanach chuckled and gave them both a hug.

“I shall make the appropriate donations to Sithis,” he promised. “What happened then? Was there any Daedra worship going on or was there a tragic accident? Or has he merely left the city without a word to anyone, having decided there's nothing going on here?”

Ah. Now this was where things got interesting. To tell her father or not?

“Molag Bal killed him and ate him!” Cicero giggled and Eola could cheerfully have throttled the little idiot. Didn't he realise this was not how you reported back events now Madanach was a legitimate ruler?

“What??” and now Madanach was looking at her, eyes boring into her as if to say _why didn't you tell me earlier??_

“There's an altar to Molag Bal in the house,” Eola admitted. “From the look of it, someone's been performing rites on it recently – it was in an active state and it killed Tyranus.”

“There is an active altar to _Molag Bal_ in _my city??_ ” Madanach growled, still glaring at her. “Daughter, in case it wasn't manifestly clear before, _this is the sort of thing you should be telling me about immediately!_ ”

“We've got it in hand!” Eola protested, pouting up at her father. “That's why we were so long, I had to set wards around it, get the whole thing calmed down and sealed off before it could hurt anyone else! I think it'll be all right for now, but I need it deconsecrating and moving. I was going to-”

“Keirine,” Madanach growled. “Get yourself to Hag's End in the morning, tell Keirine everything and get her down here. There's nothing she doesn't know about Daedric artefacts. If anyone can shut down a shrine to Molag Bal and get it moved somewhere it won't cause any trouble, it's her.”

“Yes Da, that's what I was going to do anyway,” Eola said through gritted teeth. “I know we need a Matriarch handling this one! I just need you to-”

“Don't worry, I'll make sure the place is sealed off,” Madanach sighed. “I'll have guards on it day and night – we can't have civilians getting involved. Last thing we need's a cult of Molag Bal in our city. You said someone had been using it, any idea who?”

“No,” said Eola, hoping he couldn't see the smile on her lips. “And if you have the place under armed guard, we'll never know – they'll take one look at it, know the shrine's been found and compromised and run. No, you need the place looking like it's unguarded, like no one suspects a thing. Then when our cultist returns, let them go inside and seal up the door so they can't get out. I don't think it's a group, the place only has one bed and supplies for one person.”

“A sting operation then,” Madanach nodded, clearly approving of this plan. “Don't worry, m'inyeen. Leave it with me. You just go and find Keirine.”

“Yes Da,” said Eola, grinning as she exchanged looks with Cicero. This was all working out beautifully.

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

“Hello sister. You look weary. I have a little something to help with that, if you're interested.”

The Breton woman in the Forsworn headdress looked up, her curiosity piqued although on seeing the little Skooma bottle in his hand, she just shook her head and prepared to move on. The short man behind her with the jester hat and Forsworn armour looked rather keener. Excellent, a customer. Cerendil the Bosmer Skooma dealer had been out here for hours hoping for a traveller to pass this way. He'd tried the road crews building the highway that was going to connect Karthwasten with the newly-incorporated township of Deepwood Vale in the north, but the Forsworn overseers had seen him off, fireballs persuading him to try his luck elsewhere. Honestly. For all the Forsworn had a reputation as party animals, they were on the whole remarkably intolerant of Skooma. The phrase 'legal in the Reach' had become a by-word for all sorts of immoral and unethical things most civilised societies had banned but which King Madanach had mysteriously failed to write any laws against, such as Daedra worship, cannibalism, necromancy, performing the Black Sacrament, belonging to the Dark Brotherhood, consensual blood drinking, infanticide where the child was less than nine days old and many other things. But Skooma, it appeared, was not one of them.

“Cicero,” the woman sighed. “Leave it, we have a job to do.”

“But Cicero has been walking for hours!” the little Forsworn jester who actually looked and sounded more like a Cyrodiil man than a Breton whined at her. “Cicero is tired!”

“He's a Skooma dealer!” the woman sighed irritably. “Come on, we've had this conversation before, Cicero. Namira teaches us that Skooma is only a temporary balm for this world's ills, a false feeling of belonging and acceptance. True love and fellowship can only be found with those who accept you as you are, and true sustenance only at Namira's table.”

Cicero looked a little bit sad, but stepped away, preparing to follow after her. Cerendil mentally cursed at the loss of a customer, deciding there and then he'd had it with this bloody country, with the mist and the rain and the bloody mountain roads and bloody Forsworn with their bizarre cults that banned Skooma consumption while apparently allowing every other vice under the moons.

“Yes, sister,” Cicero sighed dejectedly. He glanced up at her again, pouting. “Sister, Cicero is hungry now...”

That did get the woman's attention and she turned back to face Cerendil with a smile on her face that Cerendil didn't like one bit.

“Well now, Cicero,” she purred, smiling sweetly as she approached. “It's a good thing we've got a meal in front of us, isn't it?”

Cicero's face lit up and he turned back to Cerendil, dagger sliding into his hand as that demented smile turned the Bosmer's way. Cerendil reached for his own dagger, suddenly having the sense that something had gone very very wrong but before he could do anything, Cicero had sprung forward. The last thing the Bosmer heard before he died was Cicero cackling as his knife sank into his chest. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Rangeir Thrice-Blooded, commander of the Reach's hidden Stormcloak camp, was feeling inordinately pleased with himself. Sure, things had been going badly, with Ulfric dead, the war given up, many of his troops having slunk off home to their families and the ever present threat of those black magic wielding barbarian witches hunting them down and finishing them off. But Rangeir knew how to keep up his men's spirits and keep them moving, always one step ahead of the Forsworn. And now one had walked right into their camp, alone, unguarded and from that fancy rope necklace and her shiny scaled armour, one of the leaders perhaps. 

“Let me go,” she hissed, struggling in the arms of two of his men. They'd managed to get her sword off her, a fancy Elven piece with a fire enchantment on it, but Rangeir knew that didn't mean a lot what with their magic. Still, they'd got her hands behind her back too, bound and forced to her knees. “I promise you, when my father hears about this...!”

“Your father, witch-girl?” Rangeir laughed. “He won't be doing a damn thing. No one's out here, witch. No one but us... and now you. No one to help you, no one to even know what happened. Your father can't help you now.”

She glared up at him, one eye already lost to a sword-stroke but the other filled with hate. Good. She'd really hate him after this. But the men hadn't seen a woman in too long, and morale had been slipping. Time to have a little fun.

“Turn her round and put her over that rock,” he snapped. The men grinned, doing as he asked while all sharing glances. The Reachwoman kept on shouting abuse even as they pinned her down and pulled back the skirts of her armour, exposing that exquisite backside of hers. Maybe he'd have to share her around, but he was definitely getting first go. He'd just finished loosening his trouser stays when the poison arrow went straight through his throat.

His fellow Stormcloaks all looked up, shouting as they reached for their weapons, and three more arrows fired out in quick succession from an as yet unseen archer, all dropping a man instantly. Just two of them left, both with their backs to their captive, watching the undergrowth with swords in hand.

The red-haired Forsworn warrior in the jester hat sprang out of nowhere, knife slaughtering one man before he even knew he was there, then he'd turned on the other. Swords clashed, both cursed at the other, but there could only be one outcome. The Stormcloak died as the jester's sword took his head off and then there was just the two of them, one tied-up Reachwoman lying prone across a rock and one jester whose dark eyes were watching her, mouth faintly amused.

“Gonna untie me then, Cicero?” Eola purred, watching him circle round her.

“Eventually,” Cicero purred, one hand reaching to caress her bottom. “But you have the nicest arse in Tamriel, Cicero wanted to admire it for a bit.” Without warning, he raised a gloved hand and smacked her buttocks hard. 

Eola gasped, trying to get her hands free, but those Stormcloaks had done a good job with the knots. She was tied, helpless and entirely at Cicero's mercy.

Exactly the way she liked it.

“What are you going to do?” she whispered, already feeling arousal in her loins. Cicero just chuckled. 

“What would you like me to do?” he purred, raising his hand and spanking her again, eliciting another cry from her lips.

“Untie me,” she whispered. “Get my hands free, I need to – oh gods.” He'd spanked her again, laughing as he did so.

“Cicero thinks otherwise,” he purred. “Cicero thinks you like being tied up and helpless. Cicero thinks you like being on display for just anyone who walks past. Cicero thinks you came up with this plan hoping he wouldn't get there in time, hoping you'd end up being pinned down and fucked repeatedly by those big Nord cocks. Cicero thinks you need _filling._ ”

Eola bit back a whimper as he spoke, that sultry voice of his dropping into its lower register. It wasn't something he did very often, but when he did, it was to make a point. 

“Oh gods,” she whispered and then he spanked her again. 

“Cicero will keep doing this until Eola admits what she wants,” Cicero said, dark little chuckle as he spoke, hand smacking into her buttocks again. “Until Eola admits she's a filthy little hussy in need of a good fucking, hmm?”

“Please,” Eola gasped, writhing on the rock, not sure what she wanted more, him to stop spanking her and start putting that cock of his to use, or to keep on spanking her. Either was fine with her... but her cunt was on fire and she really would like to come soon if it was all the same with him.

“Please what?” Cicero asked, delivering another slap, still grinning, damn him.

“Please sir,” Eola whispered. “Please fuck me. Please, I need it, please...”

Cicero laughed, spanking her once more before peeling his glove off and sliding a finger into her cunt.

“So I see,” he purred. “You didn't hold out for long, did you?” Another finger joined the first and then his thumb was rubbing at her arse before jabbing inside, holding her in a pincer grip and Eola was almost sobbing now, whimpering as he held her down with his thumb in her arse while his fingers probed inside her cunt. 

“Yes, yes, please,” Eola sobbed, thrusting back against him, trying to grind herself to orgasm on his fingers. She was almost there, nearly had it, nearly... then his hand was gone and he'd grabbed her hair with his other one, bending over her to whisper in her ear.

“You are Cicero's,” he growled. “Not anyone else's. Not free to offer yourself to anyone who'll have you. _Cicero's._ Only Cicero's! No one else's!”

Anyone else might have heard only the possessiveness and missed the plaintive question underlying it. The tiny note of _please don't leave me. Don't leave poor Cicero alone again._

“Yours,” Eola breathed. “Always.”

“Always,” Cicero whispered back and then he was inside her, not gentle, not remotely gentle, fucking her hard and fast, a hand snaking round to find her clit and Eola closed her eyes, letting the pleasure came her, crying out his name, knowing she was there, right there, about to come and then she was coming, gasping and crying out, not aware of anything but Cicero inside her, fingers on her and then he was coming too, gasping and moaning and hot warmth from him trickling down her thigh. Finally he collapsed on top of her, cock sliding out of her as his erection died. A few quick dagger cuts and her hands were free, but she still couldn't move due to Cicero being sprawled on top of her.

“Cicero is sorry, sweetling,” Cicero murmured. “But you did look very appealing. And your bottom is the finest in Tamriel.”

“Why thank you,” Eola laughed, feeling rather pleasantly contented after all that. “May I say how nice yours is too?”

Cicero giggled, kissing her again and rolling off her, collapsing in a heap on the grass. “Many have complimented sweet Cicero on his lovely backside before now, my dove. But it is always nice to hear it again.” He tilted his head, looking hopefully up at her as she settled on the grass next to him. “Next time, sweetling, can it be me tied up and used for pleasure? I've been a very bad boy, you know. You should spank me more often. Otherwise naughty Cicero gets unruly and undisciplined and does terrible things like stab Vigilants of Stendarr and take shameless advantage of the Reach-King's daughter.”

Eola had to laugh at that. “Sweetie, I packed my strap-on and oils especially. Don't worry, you want cock, I've got it.”

Cicero squealed and next thing she knew he was snuggling her.

“Cicero does love you, you know,” he sighed happily. “You're so very good at accommodating his... needs.”

“Well, we all have needs, don't we?” Eola murmured, snuggling him back. “And talking of which, we've got six dead Stormcloaks to harvest.” She produced the small wooden bowl wrapped in cloth and covered in frost runes that already contained the eyes of Vigilant Tyranus and that Bosmer they'd run into, not to mention the eyes of that Thalmor patrol they'd found earlier. “Go on, Cicero, fill her up with some nice Nord eyeballs.”

Cicero squeaked, took the bowl and set off with his dagger, flicking eyeballs out of sockets with a satisfying pop.

“Sister,” he called over. “Why are we doing this again?”

Eola settled back against the rock, attention moving on to their forthcoming visit to Keirine. “Because sweetie, when asking a Hag for a favour, it's always a good idea to bring a gift.”

~~~~~~~~~

Deepwood Vale, crowning glory of the Reach under the House of Madanach. Nord Dragon Cult ruin turned Forsworn base and now the newest officially incorporated town in the Druadach Kingdom of the Reach. Due to the heavy taxation on non-Legion troops fielded by local rulers, the Forsworn had undergone much reclassification in recent months, which was why small encampments such as Blind Cliff Cave and Bleakwind Bluff were now small religious hermitages, home to priestesses of the old gods and their acolytes, and if said acolytes had weapons to protect their mistress from beasts, bandits and dragons, that certainly did not make them part of Madanach's standing army, certainly not. Lost Valley and Broken Tower had been left as the official border guard camps but Hag Rock Redoubt was now Hag Rock Monastery to the Old Gods, Karthspire Camp was likewise Karthspire Monastic Community, built on the slopes of the Reach's sacred Karthspire mountain itself, and Red Eagle Redoubt was now the Red Eagle Heritage Centre, dedicated to the preservation and study of traditional Reach culture now that the Nords weren't oppressing them all the time. Deepwood Vale however was a bit too big, prosperous and well-populated to pass off as anything other than a small town, so an official town it had become, with the town guard barracks and lock-up in the main redoubt and the vale beyond now home to many small stone buildings, with slate roofs and shuttered windows, some still under construction with tents belonging to Nord and Khajiit construction workers pitched around them, but many now ready and inhabited. There were two small farmsteads on the edge of the Vale, a few mines and quarries up in the mountains sheltering the town, a smithy in the centre of town (FireBlade Arcane Smithy and Enchanting Specialists), a general store run by a pair of Argonian migrants from Windhelm, Shahvee and Scouts-Many-Marshes, a large magical supplies and alchemy store called Atheron's Alchemy as run by Suvaris Atheron and her family, also lately inhabitants of Windhelm. The town square, just inside the ruins at the far end, was dominated by a huge elk's skull mounted on a ribcage which glowed red and would give the blessings of the old gods to any that prayed at it but while it was the dominant religious feature, it wasn't the only one. Off to the left of it was a small chapel to the Reclamations, the only one of its kind outside Morrowind, and on the other side, there was another chapel to the Aedra, with altars to Dibella, Mara, Zenithar, Julianos and Akatosh inside. The rest of the town square was home to market stalls, one selling freshly hunted meat and pelts, another selling jewellery, one run by Orcs from Mor Khazgur bringing goods to trade, and one for the Khajiit caravaners, allowed in the Reach's cities and towns. There were a number of small cottages that were home to various Forsworn families and then there was the town's other focal feature, the Flaming Spriggan inn and jenever distillery, hub of the town's social life. 

Eola walked past all this, acknowledging the salutes from the guards, greeting the town's children with a smile, but otherwise paying the place very little attention. She'd been here before enough times to not be staring at it in awe any more.

Cicero on the other hand was still very easily impressed and was gazing around, cooing at the sight of the ReachGuard on patrol, and Reach natives mixing easily with their new Dunmer and Argonian fellow citizens, an affection born partly out of working together to help overthrow Ulfric during the war and partly because the Dunmer and Argonians were unquestionably Not Nords. The few Nords that were there, miners, quarrymen and builders here on temporary contracts, weren't exactly badly treated by the townsfolk, but weren't exactly loved either.

Still, for as long as her father was alive, none of it was Eola's problem. Smiling and waving to people as she passed, Eola made for the top of the town, to the reason it had been founded in the first place. Through into Old Deepwood, up its winding stairs, ReachGuard seeing the torc and letting her and Cicero past, and right at the far end of town, its chief attraction loomed. Hag's End Magical Research Institute, as run by Matriarch Keirine of the Forsworn. Part fee-paying magical college, part research and development centre for Reach magic in general and Madanach's army in particular, Hag's End's motto wasn't actually 'if Winterhold won't teach it, we will', but it might as well be. It had long been Keirine's training coven, and with most of her trainees newly-ascended to Matriarchy and sent off to replace those that had sadly met their end during Madanach's rise to kingship, Keirine had decided to widen her horizons. So now she was in charge of the second-biggest magical training institution in Skyrim and the Reach. 

When Eola and Cicero finally found Keirine, the Hagraven was tending to her pet Frostbite spider, Madoc. 

“That's right, Madoc,” Keirine crooned. “You bleed that goat dry, sweetie. Who knows, maybe if you're lucky or if someone's been a particularly naughty boy, we might even have man-flesh. I've heard stories one of those Nord builders has been misbehaving. Maybe we can get sufficient evidence to get him arrested one day, hmm? Teach him to not whistle at Reach girls, yes my pretty? Yessss!”

“Auntie?” Eola called, hoping she wasn't disturbing anything. “Auntie, it's me! Me and Cicero, we came to see you.”

Matriarch Keirine looked up, cold blue eyes instead of the usual Hagraven black scanning the room, eyebrows raised.

“Eola? Is that you?” Keirine actually smiled, revealing yellowing, jagged, pointy teeth. It was a frankly terrifying sight but it had never bothered Eola. Namira despised attractive people and it took a lot to put off one of her priestesses.

“Auntie!” Eola laughed, skipping forward to give her favourite Matriarch a cuddle. “How are you? Look, Cicero and I brought you some eyeballs! Cicero, bring them.”

Cicero, having spent the last decade doting on a mummified female corpse and calling it mother, was also not easily put off and quite comfortable being charming to a Hagraven.

“Hello, Lady Keirine,” Cicero chirped, presenting the bowl of eyeballs lovingly collected from all the victims they'd claimed on the way up. “Look, Cicero harvested them specially for you!”

Keirine cackled in delight, taking the bowl off him and indicating for them to follow as she headed for her study. 

“Bless you, dear boy, that's very thoughtful,” Keirine laughed. “Come, come, both of you, come and talk. You don't visit nearly often enough. Come and tell an old woman what's going on in the world. I don't hear nearly enough gossip these days.”

Keirine almost certainly had reports from all over the Reach as to what was happening, regular visits from her former trainees and whatever she saw in her own divinations, but Eola humoured her. Always paid to keep the Hags sweet.

“So how is my lovely niece and her sweet young man then?” Keirine purred, settling into her throne and motioning for Cicero and Eola to sit down. “Healthy, I trust? Happy? Not letting my brother drive you insane, I hope.”

It wasn't exactly common knowledge outside the Reach that Madanach even had a twin sister, much less one who was a Hagraven, but nevertheless brother and sister they were. 

“He tries, we find ways of surviving him,” Eola laughed, squeezing Cicero's hand. “As for Cicero and I, we're doing just fine.”

“Glad to hear it, cariad,” Keirine said, seeming pleased. She reached for a chest near her throne and stored the eyeballs in there to defrost. She removed another bowl, and the cover came off to reveal a bowl full of Orc fingers.

“One of the Mor Khazgur lot had a tragic accident the other day,” Keirine explained. “No, child, it really was a tragic accident, he had too much to drink at the Flaming Spriggan, took a wrong turn, ended up in one of the quarries and a rock fell on his head after he started playing with the equipment. His friends and some of the Khajiit workers saw the whole thing. The chief of Mor Khazgur says good riddance to him, he was a waste of space anyway, so we got to keep the body. Want some? Good eatings on an Orc.”

“Er...” Eola began. She'd never actually told Keirine about the Namira worship but she had a feeling Keirine already knew, a feeling confirmed when Keirine glared at her, looking just like Madanach at that moment.

“For Sithis' sake, girl, you may have managed to keep it from your father but you do not fool me. I know what you are, I know you've fed on the flesh of the dead before now and I'm sure you don't wait until they drop dead of natural causes either. If you're not hungry, don't eat, but don't turn down good flesh on my account – see, your lover doesn't need persuading!”

Cicero had helped himself and was now chewing on a green index finger, looking quite happy.

“Thank you, Lady Keirine!” he chirped. “You're always so hospitable.”

“Thank you, child,” Keirine said, beaming at him. “Always such a polite boy. Now, Eola, are you going to eat? You are too thin and too pale, you need to eat, keep your strength up.”

What she'd need her strength for, Eola didn't ask but she wasn't going to turn down free food. So she ate with the rest of them and the three sat in companionable silence for a bit. Finally Keirine wiped her face clean and faced them expectantly.

“So. You did not come all the way here to complain about my brother. Speak, child. You need something. What is it?”

“It's complicated,” Eola began, but Cicero had a way of making the complicated quite quite simple.

“We are in trouble with Molag Bal, Lady Keirine,” said Cicero, blushing a bit but still grinning. “We found an altar of his in Markarth, but it had been desecrated. Now we are in trouble if we do not find the one responsible and deal with him.”

“The Hated One,” Keirine breathed, her attention caught. “There is an altar to him in my brother's city and you only tell me now! Is it active? Of course it is, were it inactive you would no doubt not be here expecting me to deal with it. Ssss, this is bad. But at the same time... intriguing. I could use a Daedric altar, even one for the Hated One. Mephala, Azura and Boethiah will only do so much, and the Dunmer complain if we start experimenting with their shrines. I am tempted to tell them to move on, see how many other towns not presently half-buried in ash will put up with open Daedra worship going on in public. But Madanach tells me that is inhospitable.” She rolled her eyes then turned to Eola. “So this shrine. Presumably the Lord of Domination spoke to you. What did he want, and will doing this render the shrine inactive again? Cicero mentioned a desecration, do you need my help to track down the perpetrator?”

“No need, we know who it was,” Eola said, feeling rather optimistic about this. “He's a priest of Boethiah by the name of Logrolf the Wilful. Molag Bal said he was here.”

Keirine cackled, flexing her claws. “Him! Of course it's him, I knew he was hiding something. My sources revealed he knew of some source of power in the Reach, something that could be... useful. Something hidden in Markarth, but we didn't know where and without any concrete information on what it was, Madanach refused to let me search the city for it. And now he does know what it is, he comes running to me begging me to sort the problem out for him. As he has always done since he was a boy. He does know of this, I take it?”

“Yeah, we told him,” Eola said. “He said to come tell you.” She repressed a smile at the tutting that elicited from Keirine who just shook her head and muttered 'knew it!' before motioning for Eola to go on. 

“So, er, we're here. And we need Logrolf releasing. Please?”

That did have Keirine sitting up, intrigued. “Releasing? Whatever for? Do you not want to take him back to Markarth to sacrifice to Molag Bal?”

“Oh don't worry, sweet Matriarch,” Cicero purred, bouncing excitedly on the stone bench. “Molag Bal seems to think he will go back there on his own if we let him go. Then Eola and Cicero are going to follow and STAB HIM!”

Oh gods. Eola shook her head, really wondering if Cicero should be allowed around people sometimes. Fortunately, Keirine was not normal people.

“Now that's the spirit,” she cackled. “Well, you may as well have him, he's been less than helpful to me and I'm running out of reasons to detain him. The only thing I have him on is Boethiah worship and that's not only legal, she's got a shrine in our Market Square. However, I do have one thing to ask.”

And here it came. The price. Eola steeled herself for it. 

“The shrine. I want it. When you have sacrificed Logrolf and Molag Bal is sufficiently distracted, that shrine is coming with me,” Keirine growled, in a way that suggested that she was quite likely to turn up in Markarth anyway and make off with it if she had to. Personally, Eola didn't think there were likely to be any problems with this whatsoever.

“It's all yours. If I can have Logrolf's body for... training purposes.”

“Training?” Keirine laughed, knowing Eola was lying but choosing not to call her on it – not yet anyway. “You have trainees in your Sanctuary? I had no idea, I thought them all veteran murderers. But still, I will have no need of it. If your father agrees, Logrolf's body is yours.”

Eola was absolutely certain she'd have no difficulty talking Madanach into letting her take the corpse away when she and Cicero were done. Talking Keirine, the First Matriarch of the Forsworn, into helping, that had been the difficult bit. Eola was just fortunate that when it came right down to it, she wasn't just her father's daughter. She was Keirine's niece through and through.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to free Logrolf and save Markarth from an active shrine to Molag Bal - but while Cicero and Eola are down with the murdering part, persuading everyone else they're on the side of the Aedra will take some doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part! Said this would be short. Warnings for murder and torture, i.e. the scene with Logrolf and Molag Bal in House of Horrors, with Cicero wielding the mace. Not too graphic but still disturbing.

Logrolf was waiting for them in Deepwood Redoubt's lockup. Exactly why he'd been detained in the first place, Eola had no idea and didn't greatly care, but he did look both suspicious and unfriendly so it probably hadn't been hard to find a reason.

“Logrolf, is it?” Eola asked as she stood in front of his cell. Not just a Daedra-worshipping priest but a Nord as well. No wonder he'd ended up in jail.

“What do you want?” Logrolf growled as he looked up. “I already told you I'm not a Stormcloak spy. Do I look like a Talos-worshipper to you?”

Honestly, no, not in those robes but Eola guessed Keirine hadn't had a lot else to use to justify keeping him prisoner.

“No,” said Eola calmly. “You look like a Daedra worshipper if I'm honest. But that's not illegal, so it seems you're in luck. You get to go free.” She reached for the key Keirine had given her and prepared to unlock the cell, Cicero giggling at her side. 

“Free?” Logrolf glared suspiciously at her. “Your Matriarch has suddenly changed her mind and decided to let me go, has she? Doesn't want to know about that Daedric shrine she was asking about before? I find that hard to believe. What are you up to?”

“Sister, are you sure we can't stab him?” Cicero pouted. “He is annoying.”

Cicero was quite right about that one, but Molag Bal wanted Logrolf broken before his altar, which meant Logrolf did actually have to leave Deepwood in one piece and go back to Markarth.

“Logrolf, much as I'd like to find an excuse to keep you in custody a while longer, the fact remains you've not actually broken any laws of the Reach,” Eola sighed. “So seeing as we're a civilised country which respects the rule of law, we have to release you. Go on, get out. The guards have your things waiting for you by the main gate.” She unlocked the door and held it open. Logrolf got to his feet, shuffling out, still unconvinced this wasn't a set up but welcoming the reprieve anyway.

“Civilised?” Logrolf scoffed, sceptical eyes flicking over them both. “This country isn't civilised. This country's as wild and dangerous as it ever was. Don't think I don't know what's going on under the surface in this place. You mark my words, you people will come to a bad end one of these days when the truth gets out.”

“The old gods would not have given us freedom if they did not intend for us to keep it,” said Eola, narrowing her eyes. “Now get out of this town. If you are wise, you will not stop until you get to Solitude and take a boat somewhere else.”

Logrolf just grunted and raced out. Behind her, Cicero put his arms round her waist, snuggling her.

“Sweetling, what if he is wise? What if he does run away to Solitude?” Cicero murmured. Eola just patted his hands, grinning.

“Oh don't worry, beloved. Logrolf's bright but not as bright as he thinks he is,” Eola purred. “According to Keirine he's the most stubborn and wilful man she's ever had to question. He has Da beat on the unreasonable curmudgeon front. I just told him to get his arse out of the Reach and go to Solitude.” She turned around to face Cicero, arms around his neck, smiling up at him. “Sweetie, first thing he'll do is go straight to Markarth.”

Cicero grinned back and then laughed once – then again, and again until he was howling with laughter, picking her up and swinging her around, exclaiming how clever she was. Eola laughed as she clung on for dear life. Well that was easily done. All they had to do now was follow him back to Markarth and finish the job.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Close to sunset as they reached the Reach's capital, sun already hiding behind the Druadachs and the city in shadow. Guards stood to attention as Eola and Cicero ran into the city, and up ahead, beyond the market, was a whole knot of them gathered around the Abandoned House. At their head was Madanach himself in his Forsworn armour, nodding to Eola as she arrived.

“Welcome back, daughter. You were right – our Daedra-loving friend got here about an hour ago and made straight for the place. He's in there now doing Sithis knows what.”

“Anyone else been in there?” Eola asked, knowing the answer had to be no.

“No, and if anything does come out of that house, we'll be killing it on sight,” Madanach said grimly. “What did Keirine have to say for herself?”

“She wants the altar!” Cicero chirped up. “So we said yes and she's going to take it away for her- ow!” Eola had kicked him in the shins, glaring at him.

“Keirine's on her way to take the altar to a safe place for disposal, but she's unlikely to get here before morning,” Eola explained, smiling nervously and hoping her father would choose not to press matters. “So she sent Cicero and me back to deactivate it properly so at least the place is safe. Guess we'll probably have to deal with that Daedra-worshipper first though, won't we?” She looked hopefully up at him and Madanach just smiled knowingly back.

“Obviously he's a very dangerous man and will most likely try to stop you. I expect you to take whatever measures you need to protect yourselves while you're in there. If that results in his death, well, he'll have brought it on himself.”

Cicero squealed on hearing this and Eola hugged her father, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“You are the best father ever,” she told him, sincerely meaning it. Maybe he wasn't perfect but how many other fathers would be quite so willing to turn a blind eye and let her get on with things like this?

“I like to think so,” Madanach said dryly, letting Eola go and then having to fend off Cicero who was also feeling rather grateful for the opportunity to do some perfectly legal stabbing. After only a little scuffling and only one threat to hit Cicero with lightning, Eola finally managed to peel him off Madanach and bundle him into the Abandoned House, smacking his backside once and shoving him inside, before waving to her father and closing the door behind her.

Once they were gone, Madanach's smile faded as he leaned back into the wall, finally letting the worry show a bit. It was Borkul who dared to join him, seeing his boss looked nervous.

“Think they'll do it? Molag Bal's a dangerous one, boss.”

“I know,” said Madanach, brow furrowing. “But I do have faith in them. They're not weaklings, either of them, and if Keirine's given them something to help solve the problem, then I'm willing to go along with it. Besides, knowing Cicero, all he'll need to do is start cuddling the altar and telling Molag Bal how lovely he thinks he is. That'll send him running.”

Laughter at that – Cicero's odd tendencies were well known to them all by this point. All levity aside, Madanach couldn't help but worry. His daughter was strong, he knew that – but were even she and Cicero a match for a Daedra like Molag Bal?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

As predicted, Logrolf was found kneeling at Molag Bal's altar, sigils the same as the ones on Boethiah's shrine at Deepwood newly painted on it. Eola winced at the desecration. Maybe Molag Bal wasn't her Daedra of choice, but seeing a perfectly good Daedric shrine desecrated like that – it bothered her.

The cage sprang up around Logrolf, trapping him inside. Logrolf just laughed, sounding very confident indeed for a man trapped before Molag Bal's altar.

“Again, Molag Bal? I have won this contest before!”

“Ahhh, but I have my own champion now, Logrolf,” Molag Bal purred in a low growl that even had Eola tingling, so Namira knew what it was doing to Cicero. He was already biting his lip and whining softly. 

Logrolf twisted round, managing to look over his shoulder and see them both. 

“You?” he snapped. “I might have known.”

“Mortal!” Molag Bal laughed. “I give you my mace, in all its rusted spitefulness. Crush the spirit from Logrolf's bones. Make him bend to me.”

“Yes sir,” Cicero breathed, cheeks flushed pink. “Anything you want, sir.” Belatedly, he remembered Eola was there and turned hopeful eyes on her.

“Can I, sweetling? Can I?” he pleaded, dark eyes wide in the gloom as he fluttered his eyelashes at her.

“Go on,” Eola whispered, already feeling the anticipation build. This was going to be good.

Cicero, cackling gleefully, sprinted up to the altar, grabbed the mace and, hefting it in his hand, raised it to strike. 

Logrolf cried out as the mace swung down, but despite the pain and blood, he stayed firm. 

“Never,” he gasped. “Never, I'll never bend to you – ack!”

Cicero's face had hardened into a demonic snarl as he set about beating the defenceless man, Logrolf's cries only seeming to make him more determined. Eola bit her lip, moaning softly at the sight. Some people wondered what she saw in Cicero. Some people thought the squealing, giggling, demented little fool was all there was to him. They'd never seen him like this, darting around his prey, screaming as he struck, revelling in the blood everywhere. She'd never wanted anyone so much in her life. 

“Die, blasphemer!” Cicero snarled at Logrolf, bringing down the mace in a particularly vicious strike. “Filthy desecrator of shrines!”

Logrolf cried out and the mace smacked into his head with a brutal crunch, and Logrolf fell dead. Cicero stared at the body, then up at Eola, then at the altar then began to giggle.

“Oops,” he giggled. “Cicero didn't actually mean to do that. Er. Sorry.”

Mercifully, Molag Bal actually seemed pleased, laughing his head off as reality blurred and swirled around them.

“You mortals and your frail, weak, pathetic bodies! Try it again!”

The room settled back to normal, with Logrolf picking himself up, dazed but apparently resurrected. Cicero gasped, did a little dance of delight at the prospect of another round, and set about his grisly task with gusto. More vicious beatings followed before Logrolf finally collapsed, sobbing for mercy.

“No more!” he cried. “I yield, I yield!”

Cicero paused, glancing at the altar, seeing how Molag Bal would respond to that. With pleasure, it appeared.

“You bend to me?” Molag Bal growled. Logrolf nodded.

“Yes,” he gasped.

“You pledge your soul to me?” 

A longer pause this time, but in the end, Logrolf nodded.

“Yes,” he whispered. Molag Bal's voice rose with the anticipated victory in his grasp.

“You forsake the weak and pitiful Boethiah??”

Silence. Logrolf was on his knees, shaking, apparently some resistance present still. Cicero advanced, mace raised, growling.

“ANSWER HIM, WORM!” Cicero roared at him. Logrolf whimpered and nodded.

“Yes,” he whispered, barely audible now. 

Eola could only watch, feeling the tension in the room, Cicero poised to strike, mace dripping blood as he stood over the helpless priest. 

“You're mine now, Logrolf,” Molag Bal purred. “Mine, and I intend to make use of you. Cicero. Finish him.”

Cicero didn't need encouraging. Cackling, he set about striking Logrolf again, rapid mace blows raining down until Logrolf breathed his last and fell dead. Gasping for breath, Cicero stepped back, still clutching the mace, maniacal grin on his face as he began to giggle.

“Sister,” he laughed. “Sister, we killed someone! _Horribly!_ ”

“We sure did,” Eola whispered, finally emerging into the light. “Although I think you did most of the work.”

The mace started to glow, darkness starting to entwine around it, and as Cicero held it up, surprised, Molag Bal spoke again. 

“The Mace of Molag Bal. Behold, Cicero the Fool. I give you its true power! And when your enemies lie broken and bleeding before you, know that I will be watching.”

Cicero watched, eyes lighting up as the Boethiah runes on the altar blazed then burnt out, the cage spikes retracted and the rust fell from the mace, leaving it greeny-black and restored to its former glory.

“And now, children,” Molag Bal purred. “I have a soul in Oblivion needing tending to. Look after the house while I'm gone!” Laughing as only the Daedra of Domination could, Molag Bal's presence faded from the room.

Cicero was staring at the mace in awe.

“Look at it,” he gasped, stroking the sides. “Isn't it pointy!”

“Very,” Eola said, having to admire the sheer viciousness of the thing. “You could kill all sorts with that. The mace alone's dangerous enough, but are those magicka and stamina damage enchantments too? And is that a...?”

Cicero yelped as he accidentally sliced open a finger on the mace's points. Pouting, he held the finger up to her, but the blood wasn't what was worrying Eola. No, it was the purple glow he'd just developed.

“Sweetie, did you just cast Soul Trap on yourself?” Cicero nodded, looking very forlorn and just a bit ridiculous. Eola sighed and healed his finger.

“Well, don't worry, it only lasts a minute tops and with enchanted weapons it's usually shorter – look, it's worn off already, see?”

The glow faded. Cicero laughed nervously and sheathed it.

“Sister, do you think Mother will be angry with us for helping out Molag Bal?” 

And wasn't that Cicero to a tee. Brutality and death didn't bother him at all, but the thought of his beloved Night Mother being angry with him never failed to worry him.

“I don't think she'll mind,” Eola reassured him. “You got a nice weapon out of the deal, and you got a bit of practice at killing people. I'm sure she knows you're still hers at the end of the day.”

“I am, I am!” Cicero squealed, coming to hug her.

“Thank you, sweetling,” he whispered. “Thank you for helping. You are so very lovely and understanding to poor Cicero.”

Eola stroked his hair as he nestled in her arms, eyes fluttering closed and a happy little smile on his face. Bless the man, he was absolutely adorable.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Da will be worrying. Let's go tell him what happened, hmm? And by that, I mean you don't say a word while I do the talking, right?”

Cicero nodded, seeming quite cheerful now, and quite amenable to being led away. That was her Cicero, all right. Very fond indeed of cosying up to powerful and ruthless men... but at the end of the day, what he really wanted was a scritch behind the ears, a cuddle and a loving female authority figure telling him what a good boy he'd been.

“Good boy,” Eola whispered and sure enough, Cicero squirmed in her arms, sighed happily and trailed after her, lovesick little smile on his face. Mentally drafting a sanitised version of events for her father, then contemplating what she'd be getting up to with Cicero later, Eola headed back to the city. Today had been a good day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

“Well, Madanach, I have to congratulate you on your handling of the situation,” Legate Fasendil said, watching as the ReachGuard manhandled the now inactive shrine out of the Abandoned House under the watchful eyes of First Matriarch Keirine who, despite a terrifying reputation, looked to Fasendil like nothing more than a sweet old lady with the same silver hair and piercing blue eyes as her brother. And if he detected use of Illusion magic, well weren't most humans a bit vain about their looks as they got older?

“Oh, don't congratulate me, this has been very much a group effort,” Madanach said calmly. The two of them were standing on the steps of Understone Keep in the morning sunshine, Fasendil in his Legion uniform and Madanach dressed in some fine blue and gold robes that he claimed were a sixtieth birthday present from his wife that she'd picked up in Solstheim. 

“All the same,” Fasendil said, stroking his chin. “Not many rulers would have been able to get an active shrine to Molag Bal rendered inert and safely removed without considerable loss of life and limb. As it is, to do it with only two reported casualties, and one of them the Molag Bal cultist responsible – I'm very impressed. Seems you're not the open sponsor of Daedra worship we all thought you were. Are you going to ban it now?”

“Ban it?” Madanach raised an eyebrow. “Do you honestly think we'd have found the man if it had been banned? He'd have been careful. Gone to ground. Maybe set the shrine up out in the hills instead of in Markarth. We'd never have known until whatever plot he was hatching had come to fruition. As it is, we nipped it in the bud before any real harm could be done. Apart from that poor Vigilant, of course, but I daresay he knew he was in a dangerous line of work. We've made the necessary offerings to Arkay for his soul, of course.”

“Yes,” said Fasendil, feeling a little uneasy about all this but not sure why. “So what exactly did happen to the man? Vapourised completely, you said?”

“That's right,” Madanach confirmed. “Body completely destroyed. The altar had powerful protections on it, it took all Eola's power to contain it, but she managed. Couldn't save Tyranus though.”

Fasendil looked over to where Reach-Princess Eola was perched on one of Markarth's walkways, watching the shrine removal with that little fellow in the jester outfit who was her constant companion and official consort-to-be. A surprising choice but each to their own, Fasendil supposed.

“She must be a powerful mage to do all that on her own,” Fasendil remarked, wondering what sort of magic could rein in a Daedra. 

“She is,” said Madanach proudly. “Why do you think I sent her in there in the first place? She's one of my best.”

“I was wondering why you sent your beloved daughter and sole heir into a dangerous site of Daedra worship,” Fasendil said, watching as said daughter and her jester friend turned and made their way over. “What if something had happened to her in there? You don't have any other heirs, do you?”

“No,” said Madanach, shadow passing over his face as he looked stiffly away. “But Eola likes her freedom, and I knew she'd be all right. Cicero's got her back.”

“Cicero has lots of things,” the little jester chirped as he scampered over. “Did Madanach want any of them?”

Eola hushed him and advanced, smiling sweetly enough, although something in that smile always gave Fasendil chills. Too many teeth, and too sharp for his liking.

“Hello Legate,” Eola purred. “I thought we'd see you here. Has my father told you everything yet?”

“He's told me enough,” Fasendil replied. “Tell me, how did you manage to contain and disarm a Daedric shrine all by yourself?”

“Can't tell you, I'm afraid,” Eola said calmly. “It's old knowledge passed on from my mother and her mother before her. You'll need to speak to Keirine if you want details, but it's something only the initiated can really grasp.”

The idea of the Reach having state secrets that Imperial representatives weren't allowed to see didn't sit entirely easily with Fasendil, but on the other hand, he knew enough about magic to know some things literally couldn't be explained, only experienced.

“The Empire might need that knowledge at some point,” Fasendil said pointedly. Eola just smiled.

“Emperor Motierre is quite welcome to come and discuss the matter with me any time he likes,” she purred. Madanach was also smiling, and Fasendil backed off. For some reason, Emperor Motierre was choosing to pursue a relatively hands-off approach with the Reach, and while General Rikke wanted a close eye kept on the new country, any issues she'd tried to raise with the Emperor had been given the brush-off. Maybe it was a Breton thing, who knew.

“Right, well, in that case I'd better go write up the report for the General,” Fasendil said, taking his leave. “I'll leave you to the clear-up.”

The three of them watched as the Legate retreated into the Keep, before Madanach turned back to his daughter.

“You're in luck, he believed us,” Madanach said, arms folded. “Now, do I even want to know what actually happened? I never heard of a Daedric shrine vapourising a person before.”

“Well, that's what happened, we think,” Eola sighed. “Tyranus was there when we left, but not there anywhere when we got back.” What bits of him Eola and Cicero hadn't either eaten or smuggled out to Hogni anyway, but Madanach didn't need to know about that.

“Logrolf probably did it,” Cicero said knowingly. “Logrolf was not a nice man, sir. Logrolf was doing all sorts of horrible things with that altar.”

“Not any more he's not,” Madanach laughed, recalling the bloodied corpse they'd hauled out and taken to the Hall of the Dead. It had had a quite thorough beating before the man actually died – odd when Madanach thought about it. No signs of Destruction magic or the clean stab wounds Cicero usually used. Anyone else and he'd be hauling them in for investigation – but this was Eola and she got a free pass on most things. How she'd done it, he didn't care but there wasn't a shrine to Molag Bal in the city any more and for that he was grateful. 

His attention couldn't help but be drawn to the black and green mace at Cicero's side. It was radiating evil magic and he was quite sure he'd never seen it before.

“That mace. Where'd you get that from?”

Momentary panic in both their eyes and Madanach guessed this was another question best not asked.

“Cicero found it!” Cicero cooed, unhooking it from his belt and cuddling it, somehow managing not to jab himself with the spikes. “In a tomb! An old crypt! Isn't it lovely?”

“He wouldn't stop cooing over it, so I let him keep it,” Eola said, stroking his back. “You know how he gets with these things. Anything to keep my boy happy.”

“As long as he keeps it sheathed in my city,” Madanach warned them both, correctly guessing it would be more trouble than it was worth to try and take it off him. He'd wait for Liriel to get back for that. She was his Listener, she could deal with the demented little idiot. Speaking of which...

“The pair of you might be interested to know I got a letter from Liriel this morning. Seems she found the powerful artefact she and Serana were after. She's heading to Riften to rouse the Dawnguard, but wanted to know if I could give her a hand. Obviously the last thing I need is a powerful vampire lord operating that close to our borders, so I said yes. Did you two want to go? The muster's at Druadach Redoubt a week from now.”

Eola and Cicero both stared open-mouthed before squealing in unison and hugging first each other than him, both telling him he was the best father ever (Eola) and that they'd happily go and stab some evil vampires for him (Cicero). Then they both raced into the Keep to start packing. Madanach watched them go fondly. True, he'd had his doubts about Cicero at first (many, many doubts) but Cicero had proved his worth and certainly made his daughter happy. He'd do. As long as Eola was happy and grandchildren turned up before long, he was fine with it.

Madanach headed inside, mentally drafting the report for General Rikke that would hopefully convince her he was a concerned and enlightened monarch who truly cared for his people's wellbeing and was willing to take a stand against dark magic and Daedra worship. A bit of a tall order but given he'd managed to convince Fasendil of that while wearing the robes of a dead Hermaeus Mora cultist and with two Dark Brotherhood assassins right there, he was fairly confident he was up to it.

Guards stood to attention and saluted as their king made his way inside, and the citizens of Markarth watched as the First Matriarch and her people carried the Daedric shrine away, hopefully never to bother anyone again. And if the citizens of Markarth had doubts about the story their king and princess had told about stopping a Molag Bal cultist unleashing his vile magics and enslaving them all, they kept it to themselves. The shrine was gone, Markarth had one less thing to worry about, and the Reach was that bit safer. Perhaps most importantly of all, Cicero was no longer bored, Eola loved him dearly and as the two disappeared into their bedroom to have depraved, kinky sex, both thanked Namira and the Night Mother for finding the other for them. Because even the unrepentantly evil have soul mates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you go, happily ever after for evil maniacs. Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
